


Consequences

by xxpinknovaxx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxpinknovaxx/pseuds/xxpinknovaxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Sherlock TV: John gets pulled into an alleyway and raped. Not sure how long it will be yet. This is my first fanfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

John slammed the door on his way out cursing under his breath. He hated arguments with Sherlock, hated them. He tried his best to avoid them but Sherlock was so difficult and he'd crossed the line when he'd shouted at the poor widow at the hospital. If only he could be more tactful. Not be so obviously enjoying solving the horrific murder in front of the distraught family,

He began to shiver as he carried on walking pulling his coat closer into him. He had no idea where he was going. He just kept walking. He had planned to go to his girlfriends but remembered before he got to the end of the street that she broke up with him for forgetting one too many dates. He didn't mean to miss them. When Sherlock got so wrapped up in a case it was hard not to get involved with him. It was only when they solved a particularly "brilliant" murder- suicide (Sherlock's words not his) he noticed the angry texts and missed calls. He was beginning to get the idea that Sherlock wasn't great for long-term relationships.

The night got darker and John began to see more and more drunks filter onto the streets. Shouting and laughing, not having a care in the world, until they sobered up. John considered joining them.

"Just one night without Sherlock," he thought.

He stumbled out of the pub hours later. No matter how drunk he got, he couldn't get Sherlock out of his mind. He'd given up in the end and began trying to hail a cab to Baker Street not caring how Sherlock would react when he walked in. After a few minutes he began to realise he would have to walk home. He sighed and began to walk in the general direction of Baker Street.

Out of nowhere he felt coarse, rough hands grab him and throw him into the nearest alleyway, throwing him to the floor. As his back hit the hard concrete, his mind began to sober up at an alarming rate. He couldn't see the face of the man who was about to hit him in the gut, making him double over in pain, it was too dark. He felt the hands delve into his trouser pockets and pull out his wallet, it was near empty. He felt his phone being snatched away. John tried to get up but as sober as his mind now was his body was still drunk. His reactions were sloppy and slow. As he tried to speak all he could hear was his own drunk, slurred mumbling.

"You've not got much have you? I'd best find something else for you to pay me with?"

John felt himself being turned onto his front. Instinct told him to roll back over but strong hands held him down. The realisation didn't hit him until he felt the hands of his attacker pulling on his belt. It was too intimate. He tried his best to squirm away. In his mind he was screaming, fighting and kicking the man off him but all he could do was feel himself being pushed into the ground.

He undid the belt quickly and John began to feel more and more claustrophobic. His breathing was increasing faster and faster. He was dangerously close to hyperventilating. He could hear the blood pounding round his body. He heard the sound of a zipper.

As he felt his trousers and boxers pulled down John tried to relax himself, he knew what was happening. He was far too much of a practical man to pretend it wasn't. He knew the damage would only be worse if he didn't relax. But there was too much adrenaline flowing through his body, it was all happening too quick. He gasped as he felt his buttocks being squeezed before being prized apart. This couldn't be happening.

"Sherlock!" he cried but his voice only came out as a hoarse whisper. John tried not to focus on how broken he sounded. It was like he was in a nightmare. No matter how loud he tried to scream it barely came out as a whisper. No matter how hard he tried to fight, his body movements were slow like he was wading through treacle.

He felt his head being yanked back and a hand going over his mouth before he heard a cold whisper in his ear.

"You're going to love this."

With no further warning, no preparation he pushed in. John felt as if his whole body was being torn apart. He screamed uselessly into the man's hand, kicking his legs against the floor his whole body writhing. He'd never been in so much pain in his life, not even being shot compared to this. John couldn't stop trying to get away. He knew it was pointless. He knew he was making his injuries worse but he couldn't stop.

He could hear the man gasping and grunting on top of him. With every thrust John felt another stab of pain. He could feel the blood running down his thigh onto the ground below. This agony had to end soon it couldn't go on forever. He knew it but with every thrust he felt more and more humilitated.

Couldn't someone see them, hear them? Couldn't someone stop it? He'd face anyone right now even Moriaty if it meant ending this. He was being used like a piece of meat in the fog he could hear the attacker whispering in his ear. "So tight, faggot, you're enjoying this, whore." It went on and on. He could feel the tears streaming down his face, he hadn't cried since he was a child. He knew there was going to be no rescue. His mind had given up.

He felt his whole body go limp, jerking with every thrust, waiting for it to be over.

He began to feel the man speeding up and a loud gasp from the man above him and a sudden heat inside him. John tried his best not to be sick as he realised what it meant. He felt as if he'd been contaminated. He felt the hand around his mouth let go and his head smacked onto the floor. His attacker just laid there on top of him slowly breathing in and out. John closed his eyes. He just wanted him off him. His whole body ached and throbbed. He tried not to concentrate on the one part of his body which was causing him the most pain. He let out a low whimper as the man suddenly pushed harshly out of him.

He could almost hear his attackers smile as he stood up to admire his handiwork. John slowly heard him pull his zipper up and walk away.

He laid there, not moving. He could still feel the blood and he knew he needed medical attention. He reached out into the darkness to try and find his phone only to remember it was stolen off him. John tried to repress a sob as he realised his desperate situation. He needed to find Sherlock. He forced himself up, trying not to cry out from the pain. He shakily pulled up his trousers and pants. As he stood up, he could already feel his pants go sodden due to the blood. He stumbled out of the alley, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the streetlights. He limped down the street, it was deserted. As he got to the end he began to get his bearings and realise where he was.

He couldn't believe how close he was to Baker Street. He was there and at the door in less than a few minutes. Shaking, he struggled to open the door. At last he heard the door click and he pushed it open.


	2. 2

He was in the middle of an experiment which involved calculating the precise time of death in his latest case. He had been waiting all week for the results. He was in the middle of moving the test tube carefully planning to take it to St Bart's where he could test it when he heard the sounds of the door being opened. He heard a sigh which he immediately recognised as John. He heard a slow creaking on the stairs. Not John's usual pace. Something was wrong. He dropped the test tube barely noticing as it smashed on the floor and he hurdled himself across the flat.

He saw John leaning against the wall, clutching his side. Sherlock immediately took in his appearance. His dishevelled hair, his ruffled clothing, the desperate look on his face. When John saw Sherlock and he knew it was over, he was safe. He let his legs buckle underneath him and finally gave in to the pain.

Sherlock caught John in his arms lifting him up, he was as limp as a rap doll as he carried him over to the sofa. He knew he had been attacked, he tried to gulp down his fear and be strong for John but as he slowly turned him around and saw the blood seeping through his trousers, he felt a wave of nausea go over him. No, not John.

Sherlock ran to the bathroom and began to retch. Never in his whole life had he felt so disgusted. This was John his friend, his flatmate, the only person who didn't make him feel like a freak and someone had done this to him. Sherlock could imagine all too vividly what it must have been like for John, trying to get way. Whoever did this will pay. He tried to calmly and steadily walk back over to John who was beginning to wake up.

As John looked up, he only needed one look at Sherlock's face to know he knew what had happened. He tried to repress a cry as felt Sherlock's arms go around him, cradling him. Eventually, John gave in and sobbed and sobbed into Sherlock's chest, his chest heaving. He began to loose control of his breathing he felt Sherlock gently rocking him. It soothed John.

They stayed like that for over an hour.

John slowly began to calm down and look up at Sherlock.

Sherlock was stunned, he didn't know to say or do in these situations. After a sharp intake of breath he asked him.

"Do you want to report this to the police?"

John thought for a moment going to the police meant they might be able to catch this man, he might be able to be punished. But then everyone would know. Lestrade, Donavon. God even Anderson would find out, John would be mortified. How likely was it they would catch him anyway? He knew nothing about his attacker, nothing. And even if by some miracle they caught him and it got to court, would he get a conviction? Rape trials were notorious for its low conviction rate. And he was drunk. He had got himself in that situation; he had let that man do what he did to him. But John knew that if he went on to attack someone else, have someone else have to go through the same thing he did, John knew he had to report it. He wouldn't be able to live with himself otherwise. He slowly looked up at Sherlock and nodded his head.


	3. 3

Sherlock stood up and reached over for his phone on the table. Frowning slightly, he hated going to his brother but this was for John's sake.

"Mycroft, John needs discreet medical attention, now. He's-he's been attacked." Sherlock his voice falter, he couldn't bring himself to directly tell Mycroft. He couldn't say the word. No doubt he would find out anyway.

"I'll send a car."

Sherlock helped John put an arm around his shoulder and limp towards the door. He tried not to notice as he saw John's face twisted in pain. He slowly helped him into the car and couldn't help noticing John shuffle gently across the seat. As the car went, John pressed his lips tightly together trying to cry out every time the car went over a pothole or bump in the road. The car soon pulled up at the building.

Sherlock helped him in and before he knew it he was sitting in a polished clinic waiting while Sherlock was muttering to Mycroft and a Doctor. For the first time in his life, he'd seen Mycroft look shocked. In a few seconds he had quickly recovered and had the same mask of a face on but it had been there. So Mycroft knew then. John closed his eyes swinging his head back waiting for them to come in.

"John Watson?"

"Yes." His voice came out as a croak. He looked around the room and saw the Doctor, Sherlock and Lestrade walk in. Each had the same look of pity on their faces. The Doctor, trying to be professional. Lestrade, trying to be strong. Sherlock, trying to not let John see that his heart was breaking, to see someone so close to him suffering like that.

"Yes."

"You are in full control here. Any time you need me to stop or slow down let me know. Nothing will happen without your consent."

The Doctor carried on, "I'm going to put my hands on top of your head, to feel for any bruising."

Throughout the whole basic medical John kept his eyes focused firmly in front of him. As the Doctor pulled across a privacy screen, she handed John a hospital gown and paper bags. John was a Doctor, although he'd never had to deal with a sexual assault, he knew the general order of things. He didn't need the Doctor to tell him what to do.

Every single noise he made seemed to be amplified in the silent room. His feet padded across the floor as he went behind the screen and slowly began to undress. He tried not to whimper as he maneuvered his lower body to remove his pants and trousers. He tried not to look at the blood stained clothing as he dropped them into the bags. He then slowly pulled on the hospital gown feeling more vulnerable than ever. As he walked back out he noticed the awkward silence. The way Lestrade and Sherlock avoided his gaze.

It was Lestrade's turn to ask the difficult question. He looked down at the checksheet. The questions all seemed so blunt. He felt himself wavering. He asked John to describe what had happened.

John told his story. He tried to keep his voice calm and steady. His vision had blurred, he tried not to blink. To hold the tears in. When he finally finished. He looked over to Sherlock and was astounded to see he was crying. His whole face was still and calm but the tears were rolling down his face. From a man who so rarely showed emotion, real ones anyway, John was touched.

Lestrade then carried on asking the questions.

"Did the attacker ejaculate?"

"Yes, while he was penetrating me." John had known the next question and answered it for him. Whatever made the situation easier for anyone.

"I haven't been sexually active in the last 24 hours but I have in the last month," John carried on.

At least that part was over.

The Doctor explained to him carefully that she would need to comb his pubic hair to search for foreign hairs and take one of his own as a reference. John nodded feeling his cheeks burning as he began to lay down on the examination table, once again behind the screen. He focused on the ceiling above though the procedure. He saw out of the corner of his eye the doctor place the comb in a plastic bag.

She then went to turn the lights out switching on a UV light to search for semen stains between his thighs. He felt the swab gently brushing against him. She carefully explained everything she was doing. She gently asked him to turn around. John couldn't help but groan this time. He imagined how pathetic he must look, how pitiful to the doctor examining him.

"I'm going to need to insert a finger to feel for tissue damage. It will be uncomfortable."

John couldn't stop the strangled sob escaping him. It was too close a reminder of what had happened. He tried to take deep breaths calming himself down. He could feel his whole body burning with shame. They must be able to hear him.

He could hear her writing something down. The sound of pen scratching against the paper.

"I'm going to collect anal smears for evidence now."

John could distantly hear her. He screwed his face up, knowing it wouldn't last long. And it didn't the Doctor was quick and professional.

"There's a bruise on your upper back. Do you want the area to be photographed for evidence?"

John slowly nodded his head. He sat up on the table. He felt her carefully pulling up the gown. He saw a flash against the wall he was facing. Once she had done he hopped down from the examination table.

"There, there. It's all over now.


	4. Chapter 4

"I need…" John's face went red. He had forgotten a change of clothes. No doubt the hospital would have something for him to wear but not the same as his own warm, snug clothes. That's what he needed right now something of his, something to pull him out of his nightmare, to convince himself he wasn't completely insane. Sherlock grabbed a pile of clothes out of the bag he had been carrying. John smiled gratefully at him. He had chosen his most comfortable jeans and one of his favourite jumpers.

He let the Doctor guide him into a private bathroom. She told him to take his time. John pulled himself out of the gown easily letting it drop down to the floor. There was a bath and a shower. He chose the shower, he'd never liked the idea of sitting in his own dirty water. He went into the shower and chose the hottest setting he could. He stood there getting used to the water temperature, in a daze, until he saw a scrubbing brush to the right of his. He grabbed it viscously applying much more soap than necessary and began to vigorously scrub every inch of his body. No matter how much he scrubbed he couldn't stop the feeling he was contaminated.

He tried to contain a sob but in the end gave into it. He slowly slid down. Crouching at the side of the shower and cried. His shoulders heaved with sobs, his whole body shaking.

After a few minutes he pulled himself together and stopped. He was a soldier he needed to stand up and carry on. He stepped out of the shower and grabbed the nearest towel. When he'd finished drying himself he slipped gratefully into his own clothes. He walked out of the room and back into the main reception area where Lestrade and Sherlock were talking.

They had their heads so close together they were nearly touching. Lestrade was talking to him, calming him down? Offering advice? When Lestrade saw John looking at them he looked away embarrassed.

The three stood there, embarrassed and silent. Eventually, Lestrade cut in.

"Do you still want to report this to the police?"

John nodded his head with more conviction this time. He had just been through the medical examination, he'd make sure he didn't do it for nothing. All his focus was now on catching his attacker. He tried to ignore the part of his brain which told him it was unlikely, that told him not to get his hopes up.

"I suggest you do the statement in the morning, you've just been through a full physical examination and it's late. It'll be best for you to rest."

"Can I go home now?"

"Yes, of course."

Lestrade watched as Sherlock helped John get back in the car. He was limping. Lestrade sighed. John didn't deserve this. Of course no one did but this was John. He's put his life on the line so many times for Sherlock. He almost died fighting for his country. Why him. Lestrade was also worried about Sherlock. He wasn't sure how he'd deal with this. It was already affecting him very badly but then again it was affecting him as well. Lestrade had already dealt with rape cases before and of course they had affected him. But never like this. He had never been present for a rape kit and never known the victim. Every time he looked at John he felt a tight feeling in his stomach and found it hard to swallow.

He looked outside. It was still pitch black. He sighed. It was going to be a tough day tomorrow. He knew he wasn't going any sleep tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat outside John's room for two hours that night. Normally staying still for two hours would have driven him round the bend but he was so worried about John. He didn't need to sleep that night and doubted he could if he wanted to anyway. Out of nowhere he heard a shout.

"STOP"

John. He charged into the room and ran to the bed. John was shaking and thrashing, tangling himself in his duvet. Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to shake him awake. Put he just became incorporated with John's dream. Sherlock was dazed and stunned when John punched him in the stomach to stop him and couldn't help cry out as he crashed into the floor. The noise woke John.

"Sherl…" His voice was cut off before he could finish as Sherlock embraced him, wrapping his arms protectively around John.

"It's ok… shh" Sherlock felt John's tense body begin to relax against his chest as his breathing slowed down. After a minute, Sherlock began to feel awkward and tried to let go but John pulled his arms closer around him.

"Sherlock, please stay." Sherlock understood and they both began to lay in the single bed his arms still around John. His side was hovering over the edge of the mattress as he tried to give John more room. John relaxed, slowly closing his eyes and falling asleep. Sherlock watched him for hours, not moving an inch. John didn't have any nightmares for the rest of the night


	6. Chapter 6

John woke to find a steaming mug of coffee on his bedside table. "That's odd," he thought, Sherlock never made him coffee, unless it was to drug him for the purpose of solving a case but that's a different story. He swung his legs around to the side of the bed. The sudden movement quickly opened up the wounds and John couldn't help gasping in pain as he remembered the events of the night before.

He grasped his side, trying not to cry out. He shuffled slowly across the bed until his legs stopped shaking and he got the momentum to stand up. He saw the painkillers and the course of antibiotics he'd been given by the Doctor next to the coffee. He took them quickly and stood for a moment. He had to do his statement today. His mind went through a quick mental check of the policemen he knew wondering which one would have to take his statement.

He limped his way downstairs to find Sherlock staring into space plucking the strings on his violin. He suddenly spoke, loudly and clearly, his gaze still fixed on the wall, "Lestrade says you can come over to the station whenever you feel up to it."

"Now," John had replied before Sherlock had even finished his sentence.

"Now? Are you sure?"

"Sherlock," he raised his voice, "I just need… I just need to get it over with." The last few words were spoken in such a flurry that it took Sherlock a few seconds to comprehend them.

"Ok, I'll get a cab."

The journey was only a few minutes but it was uncomfortable. John held onto the handle above his head the whole journey pulling himself slightly above the seat. Sherlock noticed but for once he didn't comment. They soon pulled up outside the station.

John walked in determined to make his limp as less obvious as possible. He clenched his teeth and bit into the side of his mouth, he could taste blood, he tried to concentrate on that. The rest was a blur and before he knew it he was sitting in the video suite next to Sherlock and opposite a police woman he hadn't seen before.

She started it off telling him she might ask him the same questions over and over again, and no, she wasn't trying to trip him up they just needed to find out exactly what happened. He can ask them to stop and take a break whenever he wants and feel free to take his time.

"Now can you explain exactly what happened?"

John sighed, "I was drunk, I'd just had an argument with my flatmate." John fixed his gaze onto a small graze in the wall just above the police officer. He could hear distantly hear his own voice as though he was far away. When he had finished he became vaguely aware of a small, sharp pain on his wrist he looked down and saw he was pinching himself the skin quickly turning white. He let go quickly, he could clearly see the mark he'd left on his skin. He answered the rest of the policeman's questions. He could feel Sherlock next to him, it gave him a small comfort to know he was there, throughout it all.


	7. Chapter 7

When John got back into the flat he was exhausted. He'd left the station after giving his statement. Lestrade patted him on the shoulder and told him they were doing their best running the DNA found at the crime scenes through their systems but John knew that if that didn't come up with anything it was a bit of a lost cause. He knew nothing about his attacker. He lowered himself onto the sofa, mindful of his injuries and took his medicine. He half expected to see Mrs Hudson but remembered she was on holiday with Mrs Turner the lady next door. When he looked up Sherlock was pacing erratically across the flat his hands clenched. He had an expression on his face that John hadn't seen since their argument. Out of nowhere he slammed his fist onto the table making the cutlery jump and clatter.

"Sherlock, what the?"

"John, just shut up, shut up I'm thinking." He said it with such venom that John was stunned. He carried on with his verbal assault. "Can't you remember anything? Anything at all? No? For god's sake John do you want him to get away with it? You're being useless. How am I supposed to sort this, to solve this while you're being like this? Didn't you see his face? Can't you pick out his accent? Did you leave any injuries? Have anything I can identify him with? How did his clothes feel, was it expensive material or.."

He went on and on, a stream of questions and insults. Normally John would have argued back retaliated but now he was just too tired. He listened in each word cutting in deeper and deeper. He was right, he was useless. He hadn't even left any injuries, he couldn't even fight back, defend himself in any way he was a soldier. He should have known what to do, be able to stop it. But he didn't he just laid there and took it. He sunk further into the sofa his mind reeling. When would this stop? He just wanted this to stop.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He felt Sherlock's breath on his face. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock looming over him his face only a few inches from his. It made him feel uncomfortable, claustrophobic. He felt closed in like he couldn't get out. He tried to push lightly on Sherlock shoulders but Sherlock didn't even register it. John panicked, he had to fight back, in a flash of red his hand curled into a fist and punched up against Sherlock's nose. Sherlock stunned, staggered off his back hitting the wall. It took John less than a second to comprehend what he'd done. He ran out to the front door, he had to get out of there. His hand stopped when he reached out to the door knob as he remembered what happened last time he left the flat after an argument. He had nowhere to go. He felt his hand run through his hair. He ran back up the stairs past Sherlock who tried to stop him clutching his arm. He shrugged him off and went into his room slamming the door behind his with such force he was surprised it didn't come off. He went onto his bed grabbing his pillow and smothering himself with it.

Then he started screaming.


	8. Chapter 8

He screamed until his throat was raw, he couldn't stop. The pain from his throat and the sound of his screams was the only thing that could distract him, distract his from what he was screaming about. It went on for an eternity. When would it end? He drew in a breath for another scream but his throat cracked and John choked.

He slowly sat down onto his bed putting his pillow underneath his head as he steadily lowered himself down. He looked up at the ceiling watching as it slowly blurred and came back into focus. He felt sick and disgusting and used and pathetic. He also felt empty. How could he be feeling all these things but still feel empty? He heard cautious steps near his room and a hesitant tap on his door.

"John?"

John opened his mouth to answer but his throat was too damaged for him to speak. He closed it again and kept his gaze on the ceiling his body completely still. He could see out of the corner of his eye his chest heaving.

"I'm going to come in."

He heard the door creak open and saw the shadow of Sherlock on the wall in front of him. He watched him, Sherlock tried to speak but the words got choked up in his mouth. His nose was still throbbing. It didn't really hurt, not even when John hit him. It was just the shock of it. He sat at the end of his bed and watched him. John lay there not moving an inch or taking his gaze off the ceiling. He tried again.

"I think you need to see a councillor."

Sherlock looked to see for a reaction. A glint of recognition, anything but John still didn't move. He watched as he slowly opened his mouth.

"No."

It came out as a hoarse whisper, barely audible but it was there.

"But…"

"I said no."

Sherlock stopped immediately. He didn't want to push John into something he wasn't comfortable with, his throbbing nose reminded him of that. But Sherlock was scared. He didn't want to do the wrong thing to hurt John. He needed to sort it. Sort this for him. He took out his phone and began texting Mycroft asking him for the footage. Even after what happened he still cringed at the thought of going to his brother to help.

He got a reply within a minute.

"Meet me at the warehouse…without John"


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock watched through the window as the car Mycroft sent him pulled up outside. He stepped out slowly walking confidently to the warehouse. He walked in, half the warehouse was cast in shadows, the only light coming from the broken windows above and the door he'd just walked through. He saw Mycroft standing in the middle of the warehouse he umbrella in his hand. He stood rigidly still except for his right foot tapping on the floor. He was anxious. Sherlock knew straight away Mycroft wouldn't give him the footage. The deduction was elementary and it made him angry.

"Why?" he asked, his hands slowly curling into fists.

Mycroft looked exasperated.

"Can you just accept…"

"No."

"It seems John's" Mycroft stopped slightly as if looking for the word.

"Rapist," Sherlock cut in.

"Attacker," Mycroft said with a little smile before carrying on "is someone of significant importance to the British government. The footage has been destroyed and the case closed."

"It can't have been destroyed if John's rapist," he said putting extra emphasis on the word, "did that then he's a liability, you might need the footage to force him out."

"Fine," replied Mycroft his face curling into a smile again, "as far as you are concerned the footage is destroyed."

"What about John? Is he not allowed justice?" Sherlock knew his attempts were futile but it didn't stop him trying.

"What about him? He's a soldier, he will get up and cope with it, and he's learnt to deal with you after all."

Sherlock stood there in shock and disbelief.

"But at the hospital you said…"

"That was before I was aware of the full situation."

"I will find it you know. I can do it and I will expose him."

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," Mycroft tutted and shook his head, "If this person is exposed there will be a media storm do you really want to put John through all that. Everyone one knowing because they will Sherlock. If you find the footage and expose him I will make sure everyone knows who his victim was. I will not tolerate you messing up my career again getting all carried away."

"Carried away?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Now ask yourself this question. Do you really want justice because you want to help John or does your ego need another boost? I don't think its John that really needs it, I think you do. You want to prove to yourself that it wasn't your fault because you know that if you hadn't of argued with him, he wouldn't have stormed out and he wouldn't be in the unfortunate position he's in now. This happened because of you Sherlock. You can't blame anyone one else."

Sherlock stood there his expression had turned from an angry glare to a confused and bewildered expression. He was hurt. After watching Sherlock grow up Mycroft knew exactly how to push his buttons. It still amazed him how much of a child he could be sometimes. He left calmly now feeling better now he'd told Sherlock. He left him trembling in the middle of the warehouse. Mycroft wasn't sure if it was out of anger or shock, a mixture of both most probably. He climbed into the back of the car and stared blankly at the warehouse as he pulled away


	10. Chapter 10

When Mycroft reached his home he stepped out of the car. He told his assistants to take early leave. He unlocked the door and walked up the steps to his room. He sat at his desk and put his face in his hands. His whole posture slugged. He could feel the anger venting up to him. No matter how hard he had worked to get to where he had to today, the one time his brother had needed him, really needed him and had trusted him, he couldn't help.

He knew he'd been harsh to Sherlock. Perhaps harsher than he meant to be but he needed to be. If only he could understand. If Sherlock went charging in there now he would only make matters worse. He tried to warn him but he knew Sherlock too well. He wouldn't listen to a gentle warning, the only thing that would make him listen was if John was in danger.

And Sherlock didn't know. Didn't know that the second he found out he went straight to his office calling in favours to get access to the footage of the night. He spent his whole night combing through hours of footage. He'd traced John's whole night except the one blank spot he needed the most. He rang up again and that's when he'd found out the shocking news on who John's attacker was. He got the footage he needed but there was nothing he could do except do his best to deter Sherlock from investigating it and keep a watchful eye over John.

He had the footage now. He had it stored on his computer. He hadn't seen it. His mouse had hovered over it a few times but each time something stopped him and he just couldn't do it so it just remained on his computer a constant reminder that there was nothing he could do except bide his time and wait.


	11. Chapter 11

John made the most of his time alone in the flat. He went and had another shower. As much as he was desperate to he now tried to avoid having one while Sherlock was in. He just felt too vulnerable. He slowly and calmly scrubbed every single part of his body, mechanically moving across. He stayed there transfixed by the slow and steady rhythm not caring when the hot water ran out. He carried on long enough for the ice cold water to numb his body. Once he'd finished he stood there, lost for a second. He then slowly stepped out onto the bathmat. He grabbed the towel and began to once again slowly towelling every part of his body. He carried on even though he had dried off following through the routine he had started. It was something to focus on. Soon his skin became raw and inflamed from the constant friction.

After getting dressed he slowly walked around the flat. He grabbed a can of soup and began to eat it out the tin, uncaring. He had been advised to avoid solid foods, a rule he was fast becoming sick of. The only time he looked up was when he heard the door creaking open downstairs.

He heard the creaking of the stairs but for a moment they stopped. Behind the door Sherlock tried to compose himself. He'd texted Lestrade and had got the response he'd expected. There were no DNA matches and someone above had told him the case was closed. The order came from far up there was nothing he could do. And now he had to tell John this.

Sherlock deeply breathed in before stepping into the doorway.

"John… John I've spoken to Lestrade, there are no DNA matches, the case has been closed. I'm sorry."

Sherlock waited for John's reaction. He just inhaled deeply and looked out to the window. He kept blinking.

"There's nothing you can do?"

Sherlock suddenly found it hard to swallow.

"No, I'm sorry."

Sherlock just watched a John put the tin on the table with more force than necessary and began hurriedly walking to his room. To Sherlock it was obvious he wanted to get away from him. He was the great detective, he'd solved cases and helped people from all over the world but he couldn't help John. He walked over to the kitchen and tried to immerse himself in his latest experiment.

John got into his room and made sure he shut the door behind him. He went to the wall opposite him and lightly banged his fists against the wall leaning into it. That was it. All the examinations, the questions and the tests for nothing. He should have just gone home had a long shower and forgotten about it. Now everyone knew. Everyone would sympathise. Everyone would pity. Everyone would constantly remind him of it. He couldn't deal with it. How was he meant to go out into London, to go out on cases with Sherlock knowing he's out there? Knowing he'd always be out there, always having the opportunity to do it again. What if he did? What if he did do it again? John tried to block out the feeling of being pushed into the ground, feeling a stranger's hot and heavy breathing down his neck. He slid down the wall, crouching next to it. He kept blinking.

He turned himself around and looked at the clock. He needed to take his medicine. He stood up and drifted over to his bedside table. He kept the medicine in his room, he didn't need it getting mixed up with all Sherlock's experiments. He opened the bottle and looked inside. It was too dark. He tipped the bottle up, the pills spilling onto the table in all directions rolling off onto the floor. He didn't want to live not if it meant it could happen again. He scooped a handful into his hand before raising it up to his lips.

Next thing he knew he had thrown the pills to the floor. He watched as they scattered, he didn't move until they'd all stopped. He then began to slowly pick them up putting them back into the bottle.

"I didn't do it, that's what matters," he told himself.

But he'd come so close he was scared.


	12. Chapter 12

It had taken a long time and a lot of nagging and persuading on Sherlock’s part but he had finally got John out on a case with him. Despite the grey clouds and the light pitter-patter of rain, John was exuberant. This is what he had needed. Sherlock was glad. He knew John needed to get out of the house before he became too scared and Sherlock needed him too. Without John and after throwing out his skull, he had nobody to talk to on cases. He’d noticed he’d become more irritable with suspects and clients than usual. He tried his best to make sure he was around Anderson when he was at his worst but he knew Lestrade was beginning to find it unbearable.  
They went to the crime scene Lestrade had directed them to. When John got there everyone was, normal? Nobody treated them differently at all. They must all know, surely? John soon realised that Lestrade or Sherlock must have told them to react in this way. Even John could see that Sherlock was insulting Anderson far too often than usual and whenever Anderson looked like he was about to snap he’d gave John this strange look and stop. Sherlock soon stopped examining and spoke snapping him out of his thoughts.  
He led a steam of deductions finding out the killer and the motive solving the crime in less than a minute. He then rolled his eyes and shouted at Lestrade for bothering him with boring cases when there are so many other interesting things going on.  
John couldn’t help but smile; he’d missed this, “Brilliant.” Sherlock looked over to him and couldn’t restrain his own smile, John was back.  
As they walked back outside onto the busy streets of London, Sherlock told him of the cases he’d been on. He showed him a picture of a man he was looking for.   
“I’m so close,” said Sherlock exasperated. “I’ve contacted the homeless network, nothing. If my predictions right he should be here within the next half an hour. I think…”  
“Sherlock” John replied, trying not to raise too much attention.  
“What?”  
“There,” John tilted his head slightly, trying to not make it obvious.  
A flit of recognition flashed across Sherlock’s face. They walked slowly in the general direction pretending to be lost tourists. However, the when they were less than 10 meters away, Sherlock turned to face the man whose face seemed to drain of all colour and he began to run.  
They charged after him, down the streets of London. John sprinted as fast as he could. He could feel the wind against him and his heart pumping. He felt so alive. The man unexpected turned into a nearby alleyway. John faltered. He watched Sherlock run ahead of him, his large coat swishing behind him. John tried to force his legs to move but it was if he was frozen in place. He needed to get over this. With a bolt of determination John forced himself to charge down the alleyway. He was too busy running, focusing on getting out of there as soon as he could he ran straight into a man. “Sorry.” John said stumbling back slightly. He tried to run around his confidence slightly knocked before he felt the man’s arm around his neck pushing him back. John felt his back freeze up. He couldn’t move. He could already feel himself begin to shake.  
“Sherlo…” he tried to cry out but it was immediately muffled by a large hand covering his mouth.  
It didn’t take Sherlock long to notice John’s absence. He began to shout his name. John could hear him the sound of his voice gradually growing closer.  
“John, John? Where are you?”  
As soon as he was in sight. John felt the man click a gun to his head. John felt sick. He tried to take deep breaths to calm himself down. He could feel the bile rising up his throat. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably. He could feel the man’s chest pushed against his back holding him still.  
“Don’t move.”  
Sherlock stopped raising his hands above his head.  
“What do you want?”  
A heavy grin appeared on the thug’s face but before he could reply there was a deafening gunshot noise. John felt the warm blood splatter against him. The pressure on his neck suddenly loosened, he scrambled out desperate to get away. He ran into Sherlock’s arms who looked mildly surprised by the turn of events. He watched in fascination at the man’s body, looking up to the roof of the building before taking in John’s state. John could still feel the tremors running up and down his body. He began to sob. He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care who saw. He was just scared. Sherlock pulled him in closer, rubbing his back and murmuring to him. It seemed like the right thing to do. Inside Sherlock was angry at himself. How could he leave John like that, after what had just happened to him? As he looked down across the alleyway he saw Mycroft swishing his umbrella in the background.


	13. Chapter 13

When they got into 221b Baker Street John turned away from Sherlock. He was embarrassed for his friend to see him like that. He used to respect him as a soldier now he would see him as a snivelling coward. Something broken and unwanted, more of a hindrance than a help.  
“John…”  
“What?” he replied with venom. “Why do you care Sherlock? Why don’t you just give up and leave me? I’m useless. We lost that man today, that murderer because of me. If he goes out and more people die it will be my fault because you would have caught him. I stopped you Sherlock.I keep stopping you from doing your job. Why don’t you just go?” He shouted the last words swiping his arm across the table sliding Sherlock’s laptop onto the floor, cracking the screen. He charged to the kitchen throwing the equipment smashing them against the walls, destroying Sherlock’s experiments.  
Sherlock stood for a moment in shock watching what this had done to his friend. He’d been involved in all those cases over the years. Solving them and then never giving them a moment’s thought again. He’d never thought about the aftermath, what the case meant for the people involved. He understood why people thought he was a psychopath, he’d never understood, until now. He strode over to John wrapping his arms around him restraining him. He could feel his body writhing against his. He could hear his curses aimed at him. He kept struggling, John’s hands trying to prise Sherlock off him. John then tried to kick the back of his legs but he was held fast. Sherlock felt himself go into a daze, this couldn’t be happening, this nightmare couldn’t be real. He was broken from his trance off by the sudden silence. John’s body collapsed, his legs refused to hold him anymore. He felt like a dead weight in Sherlock’s arms. He could hear his snuffling, John’s whole body heaving heavily.  
Sherlock half carried half dragged John to the sofa laying him down gently. John immediately turned away from him nuzzling his face into the back of the sofa. Sherlock hovered for a moment unsure what to do before lowering himself onto the sofa, in between the crook of John’s legs reaching out his arm and began to slowly stroke his back.   
John couldn’t help but flinch, the touch sending a bolt of paralysis down his spine. He felt sick, he felt tired and he felt scared. He just wanted to be able to relax to live normally again, to be back to how things were before. How can one encounter have such a destructive effect on his life? He felt the sofa rise slightly as Sherlock stood up. It wasn’t long before he heard the gentle chinking of the glass being cleared away. He couldn’t stay like this forever. He’s going to have to move and face up to what he’d done eventually.  
He rolled over swinging his legs over the sofa still wincing slightly from the movement. As he reached out to the table to pull himself up, he felt a slight stinging in his hands. He held them under the light to see a number of cuts. Most of them weren’t deep enough to bleed and the ones that were, were clotting already. He sighed, his whole body slumping as he walking over the first aid kit.  
“I need help,” he thought to himself as he tightly wrapped the bandage around his hand. He still has his old councillors number he could call her again, arrange an appointment. What could she do anyway? Last time all she did was tell him to write a blog. It wasn’t her that helped him in the end it was Sherlock and he wasn’t helping with this. After the examination Sherlock had held onto him tight and promised he would find his attacker but it was as if he’d given up. Couldn’t he call Mycroft, try and find footage or was he still too proud? John walked up to his room the thoughts swirling round and round his head. Maybe I should try and write the blog again.  
The thought stuck in his mind as he opened his laptop. He was interrupted by a light tap on the door. “Come in,” he replied, his voice sounding hoarse. Sherlock walked in, “Lestrade’s just summoned me to a crime scene, do you want to come?” John shook his head, he was not going to stop Sherlock from doing his work again. He stared at the wall in a daze as he heard Sherlock run down the stairs slamming the front door behind him.  
His attention turned again to the empty document. He took a deep breath and slowly started typing up the latest case.


End file.
